I Became the Koi Actor After Entering the Book

**Chapter 75: Release of the Japanese Version**

Translator: Namizaki

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In China, <Campus Prince and Campus Belle> and Chi Zhongqiao had mutually elevated each other. But in Japan, it was entirely Chi Zhongqiao single-handedly dragging the film to success.

At least, that was the case initially.

Shortly after the film’s release, two photos of Chi Zhongqiao went viral on Tuitui.¹Japanese version of twitter

One was the scene from the poster where he was dozing off, and the other showed him holding a bouquet of fragrant lilies, their pristine white petals contrasting against the spotless corridor of the hospital.

Both images were strikingly simple in color, with masterful use of light and shadow. The bright, airy scenes and vibrant color grading perfectly complemented the School Heartthrob, the sole figure in the frame.

His eyes, in particular, drew viewers in as if they were stepping into a sunlit classroom, where every corner was bathed in light, leaving no shadows untouched.

There was an almost mesmerizing clarity to them.

Though the media’s description of him as “a pure youth seen once in a millennium” sounded melodramatic, those few words possessed a unique allure that compelled passersby to click and take a look.

And that single glance was enough to fall into the rabbit hole.

Chi Zhongqiao possessed an undeniably flawless face. His features were exceptionally harmonious, and his naturally downturned eyes gave him an innocent, youthful charm.

Everyone who saw the two images couldn’t help but ask who the person in the pictures was and what film or TV show they were from. Upon learning it was the male lead from <Campus Prince and Campus Belle>, they eagerly searched online and discovered it was a currently trending movie.

And it was a Chinese film—so was this a Chinese boy?

Japanese girls bought tickets based on his looks alone, especially those still in school. The term “School Heartthrob” held an irresistible allure, perhaps because every girl harbored an image of a clean-cut boy in a school uniform in her heart.

For Chinese expats living abroad, the decision was even simpler—they gathered their friends and went straight to see it.

For these wanderers in foreign lands, any spiritual connection to their homeland was precious. If they could spare the time, they would definitely watch the film.

After seeing it, they couldn’t resist recommending it to everyone around them—”If you watch <Campus Prince and Campus Belle>, we’re brothers (or sisters) for life!”

It’s not just a comedy!

<Campus Prince and Campus Belle> truly captures our youth.

No excessive romance, no abortions—just endless exams, goofy classmates, and the unique mix of pressure and freedom that comes with being a senior high third-year student.

These individuals had left their home country, perhaps seeking a brighter future or chasing a dream. The vibrant energy conveyed in the film instantly transported them back to their high school days.

Now, however, their memories of that era were filtered through the lens of time, softening most of the sharp edges and rough corners into fuzzy nostalgia.

Everything seemed beautiful, and even the film carried a special significance, as if it represented a time that could only be remembered, never relived.

When they mentioned the film to others, their voices were always filled with wistful emotion:

“Watching the movie reminded me so much of my school days.”

“The film felt so real. I laughed and cried. I used to stay up all night cramming for exams in high school too.”

This piqued the curiosity of their Japanese friends, who peppered them with questions about what high school was like in China. Was it similar to high school in Japan?

As they described their experiences, their listeners gasped in amazement. Then, almost invariably, someone would ask: “What about that School Heartthrob you mentioned? Was he really that good-looking?”

The advocate would immediately pull out their phone and show a photo: “He wasn’t just good-looking—he was absolutely stunning. Do you know what ‘stunning’ means? No? In China, we use that word to describe someone who’s perfect in every way, with no flaws at all.”

The Japanese seemed to understand, but not really. “Oh, I see.”

Thanks to their enthusiastic recommendations, curious friends flocked to theaters, contributing to the box office success.

Initially, most viewers came for the “nostalgia” or the “once-in-a-millennium beautiful boy,” harboring little hope for the film itself. Yet after seeing it, they too became fervent advocates. Beyond resonating with the actors’ emotional performances, they were captivated by the portrayal of daily life for Chinese high school students, marveling at the contrast with their own high school experiences and eagerly comparing the two.

Some media outlets even seized on this trend, launching the hashtag: “What was your high school life like? Are you envious of other countries’ high schools?”

And so, in a foreign land separated from China by the sea, <Campus Prince and Campus Belle> skyrocketed to popularity in an unexpected way.

Actors and their works always elevate each other.

With the film’s release, Chi Zhongqiao gained a massive following.

After all, who wouldn’t adore such a youth?

Fans frantically searched for information about Chi Zhongqiao, and upon discovering he had a Tuitui account, they immediately rushed to follow him.

Chi Zhongqiao’s Tuitui account gained a million followers in just a few days. After following, fans discovered that although the account was newly registered, it already had a post—a video!

The comments section quickly flooded with messages:

“His voice is so pleasant!”

“He looks different from the School Heartthrob here, but still incredibly charming.”

“The School Heartthrob is just a boy, but this Mr. Chi looks like a mature man.”

“Aiya, his smile is so sweet! Did he grow up eating candy?”

“Does he have a nickname? No? Then I’ll call him Mr. Chi too. Ah, he’s so adorable, yet so serious when talking about acting!”

The Chi Zhongqiao in the interview differed slightly from his on-screen persona. This very difference made him seem more real, not just a character existing on a screen.

Chi Zhongqiao was a slow-paced person. Apart from gaming, where he could be quick, he usually spoke at a leisurely pace. Yet this calmness wasn’t off-putting; his gentle manner made him seem warm and approachable.

Foreign fans gradually fell into the deep pit that was “Chi Zhongqiao.”

However, the content was scarce, and the account wasn’t managed by Chi Zhongqiao himself. Unlike his own frequent updates, this account only sporadically reposted old videos with subtitles.

Unfortunately, Chi Zhongqiao didn’t have many videos to share. He had been exceptionally busy lately, barely able to spare time for his own family, let alone focus on his Japanese fans.

His fans felt neglected, like little cabbages left to wither in the field.

Undeterred, the “little cabbage” fans took matters into their own hands. They scoured other major websites and found dramas Chi Zhongqiao had starred in. <Empress of the World> was already available in its entirety on one site, and clips from <Invisible Crime> could also be found.

However, due to the lack of translations, watching these dramas proved challenging for the fans.

Compared to the youthful campus drama <Campus Prince and Campus Belle>, the historical drama <Empress of the World> proved more captivating. Its exquisite costumes and sweeping romance drew many fans in, even despite the language barrier.

Historical dramas have always possessed a unique and irreplaceable allure.

As for <Invisible Crime>, the limited clips available had yet to make a significant impact.

Even Du Yusheng hadn’t anticipated it: Chi Zhongqiao’s face had shattered the barriers of cultural difference, successfully launching both himself and his work beyond national borders and effortlessly amassing a global fanbase.

Separated by the internet, Du Yusheng stared blankly at the endless stream of gushing praise on Tuitui, thinking, Chi Zhongqiao must be cursed. Why is his every success so different from everyone else’s?

A once-in-a-millennium handsome youth? How nauseatingly cliché.

In early January, Chi Zhongqiao finally secured a day and a half of leave from Director Yu to attend this year’s Flying Hope Awards ceremony.

Though he hadn’t received an individual nomination, he was attending as part of the <Invisible Crime> production team.

Lu Yuzhou silenced his fifth alarm. Beside him, Chi Zhongqiao was curled up under the covers, his brow furrowed, likely disturbed by the persistent ringing.

Chi Zhongqiao always took a nap after returning from filming. Lu Yuzhou, ever the indulgent ruler, couldn’t focus on work after a phone call in his office. Since it was Friday, he simply left work early.

When he returned, Chi Zhongqiao had just showered, his hair still damp as he was about to crawl under the covers. Seeing Lu Yuzhou enter the bedroom, he patted the pillow. “Yuzhou, come lie down with me for a bit.”

Huddling under the covers with someone you love in the dead of winter is the ultimate luxury.

Lu Yuzhou hung his coat on the rack and leaned down to kiss Chi Zhongqiao’s forehead. “You go to sleep first, Qiao-ge.”

Chi Zhongqiao tilted his head back to look at him. “Aren’t you tired?”

Lu Yuzhou smiled, bent down, and brushed his lips against Chi Zhongqiao’s. “I’m not tired. You go to sleep, Qiao-ge.”

Chi Zhongqiao unconsciously licked the corner of his mouth. “Did you sneak some candy?”

Lu Yuzhou raised an eyebrow. “Mm, just had some.”

Chi Zhongqiao chuckled softly. The shower had cleared his head, and suddenly he didn’t feel like sleeping.

Lu Yuzhou leaned against the headboard, interlacing his fingers with Chi Zhongqiao’s. His thumb gently stroked the back of Chi Zhongqiao’s hand. As if he’d taken a sleeping pill, Chi Zhongqiao’s eyelids grew heavy. Sleepiness washed over his mind like a tide, and he closed his eyes, murmuring a drowsy response.

By the time Lu Yuzhou finished replying to a message, Chi Zhongqiao was already asleep.

Lu Yuzhou wasn’t tired at all. He had far more energy than Chi Zhongqiao, the soul-weary “old father” of their relationship. Six or seven hours of sleep a day was more than enough for him.

Lu Yuzhou watched Chi Zhongqiao sleeping by the bed for a while, knowing he wouldn’t wake up anytime soon. He decided to go make a pot of congee.

Just as the congee was simmering nicely, Lu Yuzhou heard a deafening alarm blaring from the bedroom. Reluctant to wake Chi Zhongqiao, he was about to get up when Chi Zhongqiao’s phone, lying on the bedside table, began buzzing.

Lu Yuzhou answered the call and turned to leave the bedroom.

“Hello?”

“President Lu…” Du Yusheng’s voice came through the line.

Ever since stumbling upon their relationship, Du Yusheng’s eyes had been nearly blinded by the sheer brilliance of it all.

Especially that little rascal Chi Zhongqiao, who showed absolutely no restraint.

“What is it?” Lu Yuzhou glanced at the congee simmering in the pot and turned the heat down to low.

Du Yusheng wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Zhongqiao has the afternoon free today. I thought he could post something online to stay active.”

After all, Chi Zhongqiao hadn’t posted anything in nearly a month. He used to love sharing updates, but since filming for <The Patriot> began, he’d been completely immersed in the role, never emerging from it.

Truth be told, <The Patriot> crew was a bit mad. Everyone was barely surviving under the oppressive pressure of director Yu Shuo.

Du Yusheng once visited the film set to check on his two unfortunate charges and was startled by Yan Yiyun’s condition. The girl’s grasp of her lines was weak, so Chi Zhongqiao had her cramming day and night—filming during the day and tutoring at night. She sat everywhere muttering to herself like a madman.

Du Yusheng was so alarmed he nearly dragged the two poor kids to a psychiatrist.

No wonder Qiao Gege even sets an alarm to sleep on his days off.

Lu Yuzhou paused. “Alright.”

Du Yusheng breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been worried President Lu might coddle Zhongqiao and dismiss the video shoot as trivial.

“I’ll have Zhong Yin head over later…”

“No need,” Lu Yuzhou said. “I’ll film Brother Qiao myself.”

Du Yusheng choked, forcing a dry laugh. “Okay, then… thank you for your trouble.”

Lu Yuzhou’s expression remained unchanged. “It’s my pleasure.”

Du Yusheng: “……”

Even this is just another way to shove couple’s PDA down my throat? I’m begging Zhongqiao to just accept President Lu already.

He added stiffly, “The video is specifically for our Japanese fans. I’ve already selected several themes for Zhongqiao and sent them to his phone. Please remind him to check them.”

Lu Yuzhou asked, “How’s the situation over there?”

When the topic of work came up, Du Yusheng’s spirits lifted. “It’s going great, better than I expected! I’ve already received cover invitations from several prestigious magazines—all cover shoots. I’ll get back to you… uh, Zhongqiao has been quite busy lately…”

For Du Yusheng to acknowledge a magazine’s prestige…

Lu Yuzhou said, “You don’t need to be so secretive around me. I won’t interfere with your work. Just make sure Brother Qiao doesn’t overwork himself.”

Du Yusheng quickly replied, “I’ll definitely keep an eye on his workload.”

Lu Yuzhou hung up after a brief acknowledgment, ladled out the porridge to cool, and went to the bedroom to wake Chi Zhongqiao.

Chi Zhongqiao rested his chin on Lu Yuzhou’s shoulder, his eyes still closed and long lashes fluttering, his voice thick with sleepiness. “What time is it?”

Lu Yuzhou glanced at the clock. “3:30. Are you getting up now?”

Chi Zhongqiao’s mind cleared. He lightly rubbed his cheek against Lu Yuzhou’s. “If you stay and cuddle a bit longer, I won’t get up.” Despite his words, he threw back the covers and got out of bed to wash up.

After lingering in the bathroom for a while, feeling fully awake, Chi Zhongqiao quietly closed the door. He gazed at himself in the mirror, thoroughly pleased with his own handsomeness, then reached for the perfume and spritzed a little on.

He’d been too busy filming the past few days to take care of himself. Now that he finally had a day off, he wasn’t going to waste it.

Chi Zhongqiao unbuttoned two buttons of his cotton pajamas, rolled up his sleeves twice, and strolled out of the room.

Lu Yuzhou was replying to a message when he heard the sound and turned around. “Du Yusheng just said Qiao-ge needs to record a video this afternoon…” His gaze swept down to Chi Zhongqiao’s collar, and his eyes deepened.

Chi Zhongqiao acted oblivious. “Yeah, the movie’s out in Japan, right? I registered an account on their social media platforms before, but I’ve been too busy to manage it lately…” He watched Lu Yuzhou slowly approach him, tilting his head back without a change in expression. “What’s wrong?”

Lu Yuzhou buttoned up Chi Zhongqiao’s collar. “Don’t catch a cold.”

Chi Zhongqiao: “……”

So, whose script was flawed here?

“Qiao-ge, trying to seduce me won’t work.”

Lu Yuzhou nipped at Chi Zhongqiao’s earlobe. “You’ve been too tired lately…”

Chi Zhongqiao cut him off. “You don’t need to say any more.”

Lu Yuzhou: “Hmm?”

Chi Zhongqiao nestled into the bed. “Filming has worn me out. My looks are fading, and love fades with them.”

Lu Yuzhou finally couldn’t hold back his laughter, peppering Chi Zhongqiao with light kisses. “Too bad I see beauty in the eye of the beholder.”

Chi Zhongqiao: “So you’re saying I really don’t look good lately?”

President Lu, usually invincible in business, fell right into the trap. “Umm… no.”

Chi Zhongqiao sighed dramatically. “Men…”

Lu Yuzhou: “……”

Chi Zhongqiao declared: “Big, dumb pigs.”

Zaki~ English is not my first language, but I’ll try to get the translations as close as possible to the Author’s work. If you see any grammatical errors or mistakes in the translation, please feel free to drop them in the comments section so I can correct them immediately. Thank you and Happy Reading 🙂

• 1Japanese version of twitter